


Discipline

by proleptic_fancy



Category: Quantum Leap
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-18
Updated: 2008-06-18
Packaged: 2017-11-28 06:02:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/proleptic_fancy/pseuds/proleptic_fancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam Beckett is a motherfucking ninja.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Discipline

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-series. Part of a writing exercise, from the prompt, _discipline_.

An outsider would say he's on the defensive as he ducks a jab to the face, sidesteps another to the chest. He never stops moving backwards, but he never drops his guard. His opponent thinks he's winning, thinks he's chasing Sam into a critical mistake. If he were facing anyone but Sam Beckett, he might be right.

Sam doesn't try to lure his opponents into a false sense of security, not consciously anyway, but it's easier to analyze the patterns in their movements—each person unique, along certain universal trends—when they're on the offensive.

He blocks another jab, noting that for just a moment, the other man leaves a hole in his otherwise solid guard, but doesn't strike. He knows he won't have to.

His opponent's stance shifts higher, and Sam is visualizing all the relevant angles before the other man's foot even leaves the ground. He anticipates the kick to his temple perfectly, leaning in instead of back, and knocks his opponent off his feet with fluid grace.

The man accepts Sam's hand up in dignified defeat, though he's breathing hard, and Sam makes a note to calculate his force vectors more carefully in the future. The last thing he wants is to hurt someone.

"Nother round?" he asks, and the man shakes his head, smile becoming a wince.

They briefly clasp taped hands in silent acknowledgement of the other's skill. Even as strangers, they share the camaraderie of their makeshift battleground, in a bond as old as man.

His opponent heads for the showers, but Sam returns to the heavy bag swaying in the center of the room. He starts off slow—a pair of short jabs, a low roundhouse— before moving on to more complicated maneuvers. A tricky kick overbalances him, sending him sprawling to the mats, their sour smell invading his lungs, but he gets up and tries it again.

His foot lands with a satisfying smack, and it's on to something new.


End file.
